


To Live

by KiwiWitch



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, toxic relationship because they can't talk to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiWitch/pseuds/KiwiWitch
Summary: Kagura does not die. She lives. Regains her heart and sees the war to its end. But the spider’s threads run deep, the brand between her shoulder blade binds her, her death predetermined. The generosity of dogs staves off her death, all for the price of a collared throat and a new master. When he pulls, she follows, and wonders when she desired anything more than freedom.
Relationships: Kagura/Sesshoumaru (InuYasha)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	1. A Little

The first time it happens, it takes her by surprise.

She sleeps more, and deeply, like death, what little energy she has left devoted to keeping her body moving. Kagura recognizes the irony of it, that one who once made corpses dance so prettily is now nothing more than that, a body dancing to the tune of another; and it is one warm summer afternoon, surrounded by blood and gore and the poison that flows through their veins, that he makes that abundantly clear. 

She sleeps. A sarugami catches the sunlight glinting off the stone around her neck and has its paws tangled in the chain by the time her eyes flutter open. 

The monkey is hardly a threat, but she feels the pull when it yanks at the chain, as the stone leaves her skin and is nearly torn from her neck―like she is a bottle filled with water, sloshing around inside her bones, nearly tipping and spilling across the muddied forest floor. She screams, a feral thing, a screech to rival that of the ape as she lashes out, rending flesh from bone until it finally falls silent, throat ripped open and blood splattered across the ground.

Kagura gasps for air―a useless action, for lungs that no longer need oxygen―and clutches at the chain desperately, threading her fingers through the beads and holding it against a silent breast. She has not known fear in some time, and the sensation would have her blood running cold if she could be any colder, or if it moved at all through her veins. She  _ is  _ dead, but only has the physical sensation to show for it, her soul―or whatever is left of it, whatever she ever had―still clings to her corpse. 

She heaves one final, shuddering,  _ useless _ breath, and raises her head, only to find him not far, watching her. Unsurprised, she knows that he is always there, lingering close behind, ensuring his mother’s gift has not gone to waste, she thinks―still, she flinches under his gaze.

He is always cold, impassable, but she knows that below that stoic veneer he is barely contained within the human shaped disguise he has stuffed himself into, nothing more than a vicious, snarling dog. She’s seen glimpses of that rage, but never has it been so clearly on display as now―Sesshoumaru’s eyes are wild, feral and furious as he looks down on the monkey’s corpse with his lip curled in disgust. 

“What’s got you so―” she tries to put bite into the words, a haughty sneer, she is the one walking the precarious line between life and death, after all, but his glare silences her as he steps forward, the sound of his boots crushing earth and detritus as he invades her space, eyes all molten amber and sclera tinged pink. He reaches out a hand―and Kagura half winces, catches herself before her muscles fully seize, a soft gasp still stuck in her throat―he notices, and she thinks that maybe his scowl softens, but his hand still moves, reaches for her throat, and she prepares for him to rip the beads from her neck, to spill her across the dirt and leave her corpse to decompose amongst the rot like she’s meant to, to rip away the gift she hasn’t quite repaid.

Instead, he palms the side of her neck, just below her jaw. His hand is hot, blood pumping beneath the skin, full of life and vigor, and she leans into it, craving that warmth, the sound of a heartbeat… Whether he feels the change in her weight she isn’t sure, but she almost cries at the loss when he pulls away, a burning handprint lingering on her icy skin.

He holds up his hand to her, his palm smeared with―it takes her longer than it should to recognize it―the black ichor of blood, almost green under the shadow of the trees. She smacks her hand against her neck, feels the slick texture of her skin, and when she pulls away her own palm is coated in more of the same. She hadn’t felt the blow, whether from the monkey’s paw or from the beads digging into her flesh. She supposes it hardly matters when there is a gaping wound at her throat. 

Sesshoumaru stares at the stain on his hand, all fury and disgust curling his lip, and she worries what he’ll do, the monkey is already dead, and with nothing to kill there is nowhere for that rage to go― 

His gaze slides to her. There is a pause, silence ringing in her ears as he seems to ponder her… then his hand comes back, fisting in the fabric at her hip, and her fears are hardly alleviated.

Her skin goes cold as he moves in close, pulling her in until she is cocooned amidst his fur, his chin dipped towards her ear, the heat of him and the thunder of his heart almost overwhelming; Kagura doesn’t move, frozen as if she is prey in his trap, waiting to be devoured. The hand at her hip shifts, tightens its grip, while the other finds a hold on her opposite side, just a little lower. She leeches off his warmth, lets it invade her even as her arms stay limp at her sides, unsure and petrified. Sesshoumaru’s chest is still, holding his breath for what feels like hours―because of the stink of death, maybe― 

He pulls back, and Kagura knows what it is that he wants.

The heat in his eyes is no longer that of fury. She’d lived amongst humans long enough to learn to recognize a man’s desire, and knows it should terrify her more than his rage. 

Sesshoumaru is unpredictable, dangerous, fueled only by his own impulse. She isn’t sure what it means to be the object of his desire, or if this is simply the inevitable price for her life. 

His hands move to her waist, but he goes no further, just stares at her, amber eyes burning and aura so hot she’s afraid she’ll melt in his arms. He is waiting, she realizes. For permission or submission? She isn’t quite sure, doesn’t know if she is allowed to refuse him, to swat him away and never let him lay hands on her again. 

Would he rip the stone from her neck? Let her rot amongst the leaves? Or― 

Testing the words on her tongue, she knows she cannot voice them. With his hands at her waist, his heat warming her clammy skin, the air in his lungs… she has wanted this for longer than she can remember. Wanted  _ him _ ―his power, his strength, all that rage and fury and the poison that has already killed her once.

Kagura unties the belt around her waist, lets it tangle in his hands as he pulls her back in. 

She has wanted this. Has imagined it in the dark of night when he’s miles away, what his touch would feel like on her naked skin, if that fury would manifest in passion, if he would be rough, all animal and instinct. 

She finds that it is neither. He is careful, almost soft, as she pulls her yukata apart. Claws skate across her skin as her robes slide down her arms, as his swords― _ damned, spiteful, bastard blades _ ―are carefully placed to the side, his armor thrown away, the white fabric of his knees turns muddied brown as they sink to the floor―neither fully disrobed, cloth pulled apart just enough to allow an exploring hand until they are free enough for him to grip her hips and pull her up, wraps her legs around his waist and press against her.

She gasps―she still feels some pain―and the dead organ between her legs cannot grant him access the way she wants. Sesshoumaru stills, the pressure eases and he leans back, the lapels of his robe fall to his elbows, his chest is pale and she can see the shiver of muscle when he inhales, and there is calculation in his stare. 

“ _ Kagura―” _

The sound of her name stings. She hates looking up at him like this, spread around him with her shoulders pressing into the dirt, but she reaches for his wrist―the only part of him she can easily reach―and tugs. 

He doesn’t move right away, but when he does it is away and she almost lets out a whine at the cold, the lack of his heat―but she realizes his intention when he spits into his hand, a little moisture to ease his going, and leans over her again. 

Kagura has known pain―the slice of a wind scar, the burning of a hole punctured through her chest, the unending agony of her heart being squeezed―but the ache between her legs as Sesshoumaru pushes inside her compares to none of it. It almost feels like life, the way her belly burns, as if she’s being torn apart again, and she finds herself aching for that more than the friction, wants to bring him down and relish in his heat as he moves within her―but he holds himself away, only his hands and the place where they’re joined linking them as he hovers above her, the only indication of the act the small part between his lips. She has _ wanted _ this, but the chill behind his warm eyes hurts almost as much as him spearing into her―she grips his wrists so hard her knuckles go white, and lifts her hips, the angle pulling him in deeper and she almost hates the high pitched whine that leaves her throat; “ _ Sesshoumaru…” _

His grip tightens on her hips and he slams into her with bruising intensity for the final time, rooting himself inside her. He stills, his eyes close, his spine curves just slightly as he heaves a shuddering sigh, and she thinks that maybe this is the closest she will ever come to seeing him content.

The wind shakes the trees, sending scattered circles of sunlight dancing across his hair, the strands sparkle and she badly wants to reach out and touch them, twirl a lock around her finger… But when he straightens and withdraws from her, she just slides away from him and sits up, loosely pulling her robes back up to cover herself. Sesshoumaru hardly moves, and she tries very hard to keep her gaze on his face as he tucks himself back inside his clothes, his expression impassive as if he hadn’t just fucked her into the dirt.

Kagura turns her head, afraid he’ll misconstrue her stare, only to lock eyes with the mutilated monkey, eyes still glassy and shimmering despite the bisected mess of its jaw. How appropriate, she thinks, a remark on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it when she turns back to face him.

Still kneeling on the ground, but appropriately clothed, he is watching her. She stares back, sits up, unsure what she would say, what there even is to be said when― 

Sesshoumaru tilts his head, stopping her thoughts, and he leans forward, Kagura closes her eyes as a clawed hand reaches for her cheek… She flinches when he brushes his thumb along the line of her pulse instead, and her eyes blink open after he’s already pulled away.

“The wound has already healed.”

Of course, the stone cannot return her to life, just preserve her as she is. Sesshoumaru reaches for her again, as if he’s forgotten something, but this time his hand finds the stone, raises it between them, and  _ this time _ she leans into it when she feels its tug― 

“You will have this shortened.”

And then he leaves her, half naked on the forest floor.

Later, when she sits in the jeweler’s shop, she holds the medallion tight to her breast as the chain is tightened, until it finally fits like the collar it's meant to be.

* * *

She watches, from shadows and over the edge of her fan, as the children they risked their lives for grow. 

A freckled boy becomes a strapping young man. 

A gap toothed girl becomes a comely young woman.

She watches him watching them. Sees the pride in his eyes when the boy returns with war trophies, heads and teeth and claws of youkai who should have bested him. Sees the warmth in his eyes when the girl smiles and laughs and offers him food and drink and tells him of the baby she’s just helped to deliver.

They change with the seasons. Kagura never will.

He still comes for her, in the night, in the day, in the humid heat of summer and in the brutal cold of winter, in the rain. She looks up at the barren trees in fall, and knows that it is nothing but death that follows her, that her body is as dry and empty as the forest around them.

She wonders if he’ll ever grow sick of it. The dead thing she calls a body.

Sesshoumaru never says anything. He just presses in deeper, and its almost enough to make her believe.

* * *

There is a day, where she lays snuggly between the roots of a massive tree, staring up at the sun filtering through the leaves, hand over a silent heart, that she realizes she has been dead longer than she was ever truly alive.

Fury consumes her, as she watches the shadows play over her hands, knowing the greenish tint to her skin is not the reflection of spring leaves. It is the poison that threatens to drag her to hell every second of every day, that would dissolve her stone heart if she ever removed the chain from around her throat.

This is not freedom, she knows, it is nothing more than vengeful survival.

It’s almost nostalgic, when she finds him, brings a storm down on his head as she crashes through the trees, like the way things used to be when she longed for a heart and for a freedom from a different master. 

“This is all your fault!” Her feet have hardly touched earth before she is screaming the words, no thoughts, only rage filling her throat and spitting at him, the wind matching her fury and whipping them at his face. Sesshoumaru merely blinks and orders the imp―clinging to his leg amidst the force of the gale―to leave. There’s disbelief, but Sesshoumaru does not repeat himself, and eventually the frog scurries off into the underbrush, green skin blending in with the foliage. Kagura only pauses her assault until the sound of his feet slapping the mud fades, and then she turns her attention back to Sesshoumaru, a blade already curling off the edge of her fan and aimed straight for his face.

He doesn’t move, and for half a breath, everything slows, clarity hits her, an icy sort of dread―if her blow lands it will surely split his skull in two, if he dodges he will surely kill her for the insult―terror grips her, tightening her hold on her fan and turning her skin ash white. If he dies then―if  _ she  _ kills him then― 

But no, Sesshoumaru is too pompous to die by her hand. With a flourish of his sleeves he raises an arm and catches the wind along his forearm, gouging a long red gash from wrist to elbow, blood pours from the wound, staining his clothes, but Sesshoumaru looks as if it’s only as inconvenient as a mosquito bite. Somehow, his nonchalance is worse than any retribution he could bring down on her head. 

A cyclone whirls off her fan next, and this time he does dodge, assuaging her pride if only for the brief moment before he rounds on her, face still unnervingly placid. She jumps back, away, and sends more cyclones, felling trees, ripping them out by the root as she tries to stop his advances. He vanishes in the maelstrom―and for a moment triumph floods her, but its only a second later that he reappears, within reach. A scream chokes and dies in her throat as he smacks the fan from her hands, she stumbles back, but as in all things Sesshoumaru does not relent, following her, the pressure of the air around him almost suffocating… She hates it,  _ hates him _ ―

Her hand comes down on his cheek―inaudible amidst the wailing wind and snapping trees―and when that doesn’t stop him, she settles for his chest, beating fists against his shoulder, his armor, any surface she can reach until he snatches her wrists in both hands, his right hand still slick with blood though the wound on his forearm has already begun to heal. 

The wind around them, the very air they breathe, is her domain, but in terms of physical strength they both know he is far superior. His hands grip her wrists like iron shackles, claws digging into her skin, and try as she might she can only succeed in rubbing her skin raw trying to loosen his grip, she shrieks and growls and curses him, hisses and spits, more animal than anything in her fury. Sesshoumaru just watches her, letting her scream and thrash until the wind leaves her. She stops struggling, finally takes a breath and hangs her head. The forest goes silent, her limbs go limp, sapped of energy.

“ _ Let me go _ .” 

The words sound weak, barely a mumble. There’s a pause, but eventually Sesshoumaru relents and releases her. He does not step back.

Afraid she’ll try to hit him again, she thinks, she only raises her gaze high enough to watch the tassels on his armor sway on the residual breeze. She cannot meet his eyes, not when there is none of the anger she’d expected, none of the violent retaliation he should be subjecting her to. Blood drips down his fingertips, splattering the ground near his boots; Sesshoumaru is silent, breathing heavily despite his otherwise calm demeanor.

It’s almost enough to break her.

“You should have just let me  _ die. _ ”

She reaches for the chain, intends to rip it from her neck, but this time she feels the spike in his youki before he moves―it is here that she finds the fury she’d expected, rage that nearly crushes her knuckles in his fist as he stops her hand, the lines on his cheeks crack and splinter as he pushes her back―she stumbles, heels catching on a root―he capitalizes on the second of weakness, twists her arm behind her back and spins her until her chest collides with the trunk of a tree, knocking the wind form her lungs. 

The spikes of his armor dig into her shoulder blades as claws close around her throat, tangling in the beads, hauling her up so that his fangs graze the space behind her ear, voice low and dangerous and lips pulled into a snarl.

“ _ You will live.”  _

It is not a statement, not a vow. It is an  _ order.  _

And if Kagura had the moisture to spare she would weep, even as she comes apart under his hand.

* * *

The slayer and the monk are quick to marry. 

They believe they are discreet, stolen kisses behind a tool shed, gentle caresses as they sit beside each other near the fire, fingers interwoven as they walk in the forest. They hide for the benefit of their neighbor’s sensibilities, and while Kagura has no interest in the doldrum of a human village, she still finds herself walking quietly amongst them, peering around corners for a glimpse of shared intimacy, of that giddy newly wedded bliss.

There had been no time for dreams of romance, before, or even after she’d gained a heart, every thought preoccupied with surviving, escape, revenge, fear, and dread. No reason to wonder if her heart would flutter at the merest touch, if such a thing was even possible for a being created solely to kill and to die.

There is no point, dwelling on it, her heart cannot quicken, her pulse cannot flutter, her cheeks cannot turn rosy pink in the candlelight. She does not have it in her to laugh prettily, to bat her lashes and play coy. 

She knows nothing of soft touches, warm hands, loving words whispered in the dark.

She knows  _ heat,  _ claws pricking at her skin, fangs, and the sweet smell of poison…

For now, she thinks, it is enough.

* * *

Finding him is never hard, the thread that binds them always taught enough for him to tug and bring her running. But for once, it is she that pulls, as she soaks in a lonesome spring. The warm water does not make her skin flush, but it does warm her enough to banish the chill from her flesh.

He comes to her, and only looks a little shocked, though he doesn’t seem adverse, as he strips and joins her in the water. He leans up against a rock, watching her, and it isn’t until he quirks a brow in expectation that she realizes she may have overplayed her hand. If she is the one to summon him, she supposes he expects to be seduced.

A skill she’d never had need to develop. She doesn’t bother trying. Instead she wades through the water, lets it slosh along her thighs until she is close enough to slide onto his lap. The heat makes her skin supple, the humidity almost strong enough to disguise the smell of death, the darkness hides the pallor of her cheeks, and the water eases his entry when she grips his shoulders and slides down on him. He doesn’t touch her, his hands loosely fisted and arms relaxed and resting on the rocks beside him. 

He watches her, as she moves on him, and she regrets not lighting a candle, then she might be able to see the fire dancing in his eyes―instead his gaze is just a cloudy sort of green in the starlight. 

If this is to be her not-life, then so be it, she will take whatever pleasure she can. The slide of him inside her as she rolls her hips is a sweet sort of ache, and she’s grown fond of the feel of his hands on her, the dangerous prick of his claws. She was never destined for the quaint little lives the humans aspire to, and she supposes that if she is to be a walking corpse then she will be the one to choose where she rots.

Even if that is in the arms of a dog.

If Sesshoumaru is to be her coffin she finds that she doesn’t mind. He will never be a doting lover, nor a devoted husband, she will never have soft kisses and tender touches, a warm hearth and home―she will have a monster of a man, a murderer such as his namesake, all that power and poison, bloodied fangs and claws sharp as knives on her skin. If she is to dance as a corpse forever, then she will do it with him at her side―threading her winds through his silver hair, watching the sunlight play out in his honeyed eyes. She will do it happily, just to feel the heat of his hands, him throbbing between her thighs― 

―A  _ tha-thump  _ like a thunderclap rocks her, stabbing through her chest like her ribs might crack, and seizing her limbs as she chokes on a gasp, suddenly desperate for air― 

“ _ Kagura!” _

She doesn’t notice her eyes are screwed shut until Sesshoumaru’s hands are at her waist, grounding her, even if it is further onto him. His grip is solid, but she feels the echo of a pulse against his palms, almost like a shiver, leaving her shaking and feeling the cold without that surge of heat in her veins. She feels weak, trembling like a child as he tries to settle her―it takes several minutes and shuddered sobs for her to calm, and even then there is a tremor in her fingers as she digs them into the meat of his shoulder. She swallows―there is an echo of a scream ringing in her ears―she tries to find the breath to voice words― 

“I―my―” She flattens a hand against her breast, half expecting another flutter, that earth shattering spasm of muscle, waiting for it, desperate― 

“ _ I heard it _ .” 

His voice is soft and Kagura wants to cry, feels the stinging behind her eyes. He isn’t looking at her, his head down, and she tries to pull away but his hands around her waist only grip tighter, leaving her to look down at the top of his head, her own still buzzing with adrenaline… He shifts beneath her, arms snaking around her like a vice, tilting his head until his ear rests over the center of her chest, as if he is listening just as intently as she is. He is still throbbing inside her, like an echo of her own heartbeat, but it is the sound of his ragged breathing that threatens to break her, the subtle tremble in his hands as he spreads them out along her spine, along that ridge of uneven skin, holding tight… 

The cicadas are a dull buzz in the trees and the water gurgles and splashes around them, but Kagura focuses on the sound of his breath, the thunder of his heartbeat as she slides her arms around his shoulders and lowers her cheek to his hair. 

Her heart is quiet, blood frozen in her veins once more, but she is warm, held secure in his arms and more alive than she’s felt in a long time.

Sesshoumaru moves, and she can’t help the whine that leaves her throat at the thought of him leaving her again, but he doesn’t go far; just raises his head to look her in the eye. Kagura freezes, almost struck dumb when he brings a hand to cup her cheek, tracing a thumb beneath her eye as if wiping away a tear. 

She sighs, and he pulls her down so that her forehead rests against his, nuzzles his nose against her cheek. Kagura closes her eyes, comforted by his warmth and the gentle breath that fans her throat, the stone against her neck feels light, not so heavy pressed between them, the sheer face of the stone inactive even when it slides against his slick skin… 

“You will live.” And this time, she knows, she recognizes the words for what they are. Not a vow or an order. 

It is a plea.

Kagura smiles.

And maybe Sesshoumaru does, too.

__


	2. Death

His blade never touches her skin.

And yet, even Sesshoumaru cannot sever the tie that links her to her creator.

Which is why, on the day Naraku falls to Bakusaiga’s poison…

Kagura dies.

* * *

She follows them into the spider’s flesh of her own accord.

He thinks it stupid, and tells her so when they find each other again. Given all that she is, that she’s screamed her fair share of declarations that she would  _ never  _ be part of him ever again, that she would rather die of a broken heart than be devoured.

But as much as Kagura fears such a fate, her love for Kohaku is far stronger. And she tells him so. Not in those terms, but he understands her meaning. It’s the same reason he is here, the both of them motivated by their affection for the human children they’ve fostered and protected. She would probably make a snide remark if the situation were not so dire.

It’s only a small blessing that with the completed jewel, Naraku has no interest in Kagura’s flesh. He only cares for her suffering.

They are separated soon after they meet, a wall grows between them, and though he can hear her screams he cannot sever the flesh that separates them, the poison of his claws too weak and the venom of his blade too strong to risk using it here.

Kagura knows this, and despite the terror in her voice, she orders him to  _ find them. _

So he does.

Naraku’s body is endless, a maze of hallucinations and traps, but eventually they find each other again, Inuyasha and his woman, the slayer and the monk, Jaken and the fox, Rin and Kohaku. And Kagura. All safe, accounted for and mostly whole. 

It feels like the end, the miko looses her arrow and strikes true, Inuyash wields the Meidou better than he ever could and they are freed from Naraku’s collapsing flesh. Sesshoumaru swings his sword, brings down death and destruction with the edge of his blade―

And Kagura  _ screams. _

It is the worst sound he’s ever heard. His teeth nearly crack with the force of his clenched jaw, his hackles rise, and his claws dig into the flesh of his own palm as he searches―only to find her clawing at any skin she can reach with nails that are being eaten away―Her fingers, the point of her ears, the tops of her cheekbones, the tip of her nose―Her skin, dissolving, burned by something sickly green and acidic― _ His poison,  _ he realizes, too late―But Sesshoumaru has not struck her. She won’t stop screaming, and maybe she tries to say his name, to reach for him, Kagura doubles in on herself, in agony as her flesh dissolves―but he  _ has not struck her _ ―the blade at his hip screams, too, spurs him to action, makes him move before she is burned away before his very eyes. He plunges his sword into her breast― 

And Kagura goes quiet.

* * *

He watches her, watching them.

_ “She’ll bear you no children.” _

His mother tells him this, on the day he seeks her out. He ignores her then, partly because it’s a stupid thing to say, but mostly because he cares little for anything else when Kagura’s lifeless eyes stare up at him, half lidded and dull, with his sword sheathed between her ribs. 

Maybe his mother seeks a grandchild as payment for this  _ second _ extraordinary favor. And while he still isn’t sure what to make of it, has not found the words to define the feeling, but Kagura’s worth does not lie in her ability to give him children. He has no need of them, no need for a wife or a mistress, and if Kagura wakes and chooses to run and leave him far behind he will not begrudge her for it.

But when her eyes finally blink open wide―a darker color now than before, no longer that vibrant, fiery, bloody crimson―Kagura stays.

The children they saved are happier for it. Rin runs along beside her, gifting her flowers and odd shaped stones, a braided band for her hair; she asks to travel with her, to fly above the clouds on Kagura’s feather, and more than once, Kagura concedes.

Kohaku seeks her out often, to tell stories of his battles, of the people he’s saved from violent beasts, to show how strong he’s become and the good that he’s done. Penance for them both, he thinks. Kagura cares little for the lives of humans, but the boy does, and through him she has done some good.

_ “She’ll bear you no children.”  _ His mother tells him. 

And Sesshoumaru does not care.

* * *

Her wind and her fists are no threat to him. 

He almost wishes they were, then at least she could return his wounds in kind.

She has drawn blood, but the gash on his arm is superficial, nothing that will remain longer than a day. He grabs her wrists simply to make her  _ stop― _ but his claws puncture her skin, and that acidic smell of her poisoned blood reaches his nose. __

He releases her when she tells him to, sure that she is too tired to keep fighting―he will not survive it if she decides to attack him again, because if she chooses to slice his head from his shoulders it would be the least he deserves, he thinks. He looks down at the blood dripping from his claws, hers and his, black and red mixing in the mud...

“ _ You should have just let me die. _ ”

Like a knife to the gut―Her power over him has never been in terms of brute strength, but her words cut deeper than her blades ever could.

Her hands reach for her neck and he knows her intention, but he is selfish, stops her before the chain snaps, and realizes only too late that he has almost crushed her hands in his fists. It sends her stumbling backwards―her eyes go wide with terror, and it stabs something searing, burning hot, straight through his chest―he does not release her, merely spins her, presses her up against a tree, so that he doesn’t have to look at the evidence of what he’s done…

Instead he buries his nose in the hair behind her ear, inhales.

Her body is dead, but she does not smell of it. There is no rot beneath her skin, the green tint to her cheeks is not decay. Nor does she carry the stink of her creator, that nose burning stench that had disappeared within days of his death.

No. Kagura smells of the earth, the trees and roots and grasses where she so often sleeps, she smells of stone, something mineral, like water, and she smells like― 

― _ Him. _

She carries the scent of his poison, embedded in her flesh and clogging her veins, threatening to devour her whole. It is something primal within him that preens with such knowledge―that there is no question of to whom she belongs.

He stops her attempt at ending her own life, but he cannot hold her forever, and even this―her limp, not thrashing against him, not even the pretense of fighting back, makes his gut churn with disgust― 

So he implores her. “ _ You will live.” _

If only this, even if she pushes him away, even if she tells him to never touch her again, never lay eyes on her, or come near, so long as she  _ lives… _

Something like a sob chokes her, and it might be the second worst sound he’s ever heard, but Kagura doesn’t move except to press her forehead against the tree bark in defeat. In submission? He doesn’t know. 

The wind settles eventually, the trees stop their shaking, and her breathing evens out, calms. 

He holds her there for some time, his nose buried in the nape of her neck, his breath hot against her stone skin. That feeling of disgust, of shame, fades as he inhales her, lets her fill his lungs... and it is some time before he notices the press of her backside against him.

It’s become commonplace, for them to come together like this. Like  _ lovers _ . An apt description, though he thinks one or both of them would sneer at the term.

They’ve done this enough that his armor comes apart easily and Kagura hikes up her robes much quicker than he would think possible for someone who has just contemplated ending their own life. He doesn’t give himself the time to ponder it, soon enough she has braced herself against the tree and he has buried himself inside her. 

They act like lovers, but it does not feel like lovemaking. Sesshoumaru has done nothing besides spit in his hand to ease his going, there is no slow build to the act, no loving words or gentle caresses. He does not undress her with care or shower her with affection. He steadies himself with one hand holding her hip and the other braced above her head on the trunk of the tree. 

Her body is not warm, nor welcoming. She does not cry out at his entrance. 

But she is  _ Kagura,  _ so― 

Sesshoumaru fucks her. Because he knows of no other comfort. Has no words to soothe or console. How would he? Before today, he has never raised a hand against her, yet it is his poison that has killed her all the same.

He fucks her. Spends himself in the chill of her body. Naraku’s brand still mars her spine, but it is  _ Sesshoumaru _ who has shackled her. Cursed her to be nothing more than a walking corpse, a neverending nightmare, in which she is not quite dead but that heart she fought so desperately for will never again beat in her breast.

He buries his nose in her hair, and does the only thing he can. Touches her the only way he knows how, and hopes that neither of them break.

* * *

He has never kissed her. 

Even if things were not as they are, such an act is not in his nature. It is not his way, so Sesshoumaru feels no guilt over it.

But, he avoids his hands on her. And for this he does feel shame.

Kagura never speaks of it, but he sees it in the aftermath of their coupling―her skin does not bruise and wounds never remain longer than a day, but there are black spots dotting her hips, her thighs, evidence of where he’s gripped her too tightly, where his claws have broken skin. Her blood, thick and poisoned and dark, leaves stains, on her and on his hands.

He almost wishes they would remain, would mark him as he has marked her.

She initiates their coupling, but he has never asked if she’s happy or pleased. He thinks that maybe, one day, she’ll realize that he has no intention to own her in the way she thinks he does. That his hold on her is as intangible as the wind she wields. She could slip through his fingers, if she wanted, and he would have to let her go.

Maybe she’ll realize that he will never be a true lover to her. That the only thing his hands are good for is inflicting pain and death.

Once, he would not have minded. Would have revelled in his own strength. She’d sought him out for it, so many months ago, seeking a compromise that led to her own dreadful fate. He’d preened then, still young and stupid and bullheaded enough for words of praise to please him. To let his ego be stoked by her admiration of his power.

But when he sees the evidence of it on her skin, he wishes he could throw it away.

* * *

Her heart beats only once, but it is enough. For now.

He clings to her as they wait, arms wrapped around her waist and his ear braced against her breast, hoping― _ praying― _ that it will beat again. The sun rises, and still they wait, until Kagura has finally had enough and says that they can’t stay in the spring forever. He is reluctant to let go, but does eventually.

Sesshoumaru watches her carefully as he dresses, looking for any sign of change. Kagura bristles under his stare. She snaps at him, and he isn’t positive, but when the morning sunlight splashes across her cheeks there is a warmth in them that hadn’t been there before. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” she hisses, but the color of her cheeks only seems to darken.

It’s a relief, a blessing, but Kagura levels him with a stare so furious he can’t properly appreciate the difference. And he doesn’t understand why until she starts screaming at him.

Not in a way that’s worrisome, though he feels like he  _ should  _ worry, not for Kagura’s sake but for any of the appendages he might stand to lose if she decides that maiming him is better than the yelling. 

Kagura spits at him, hisses and shrieks, points accusatory fingers and shakes her fist, her eyes as fiery as that day on a cliff when she’d called him a coward―more vibrant than they’ve been in  _ years― _ but she just keeps yelling. She gestures wildly, at herself, at him, at the stone that rests heavily just below the hollow of her throat. She calls him a bastard, a son of a bitch, all the names she can think of slide off her tongue as she raves. Sesshoumaru lets her, still lost in that warm afterglow and too calm to be bothered by her rage.

She tells him that this is all his fault, but he’s known that for a long time. 

She calls him a monster and he thinks its an apt description.

She says that she hates him. He cannot blame her for it.

“It’s like you think you’re some god,” she spits, “too high above the rest of us to care or even  _ think  _ about the consequences of your actions.” Her face falls then, and her shoulders droop, the rage spilling out of her. “Did you even stop to think what it would mean? For me?” 

It’s like a thorn in his side, the wound rotten for all the months he’s suffered it. It’s the only thing he  _ can  _ think about. That this is not the life she would have chosen had she the freedom. That if her heart still beat steadily in her breast that she would have thrown herself to the four winds and that it could be years― _ centuries― _ before he caught her scent again. Still, that would be a fate far more tolerable than having her silent and still in the boughs of the Tree of Ages, Tenseiga plunged through her ribs. The way she’d been for days after Naraku’s death… 

She watches him, waits. The words are heavy but he forces himself to say them.

“I could not lose you.”

Kagura looks away, her gaze flickering across the ground as she chews her cheek between her teeth, anything to avoid meeting his eyes, until she finally turns away from him completely. Her shoulders heave a useless sigh, and the trees shiver with it. She fidgets from foot to foot, and he wonders if she’s angry, but then, softly, she asks: “Could not or would not?”

He hesitates. “...Would not.”

She turns her head, but still she won’t look at him. He wants nothing more than to take her and see if they can get her heart to beat again, to touch her knowing that she won’t break, to comfort her in the only way he knows how― 

“Lay down.”

She’s looking at him, a good sign at least. He quirks a brow.

“I  _ said: lay down,”  _ she snaps. 

Sesshoumaru complies, less reluctantly than he means to. He props himself up against a rock and uses his fur as a cushion. In nothing but his inner robe, fundoshi, and socks; he looks up at her, expectant. But Kagura is still glaring at him, arms crossed and chewing her cheek. 

“I―” She stops. Licks her lips. “You know that the only thing I ever wanted, before all this,” she gestures at herself, the stone, at him, “was my heart; my freedom.”

He nods. She’s told him enough that he’s pieced it together.

“Then you know―” Kagura shakes her head, and then with another heavy breath stomps over to him. 

She watches him as she kneels down, as if she’s expecting him to recoil like a frightened animal. Slowly, she comes into his space, plucks his wrist from where he’s rested it on his thigh and moves it out of the way as she comes to lie beside him, the length of her molding to his side. She worms an arm beneath him, uses the other to bring his own across her waist―she does not intertwine their fingers, but she holds his hand and rests them both on his belly. She slings her leg over his, notches her thigh so that it rests comfortable on top of his own. 

Sesshoumaru does not move, waiting and watching as Kagura molds herself against him. Her skin is cool, almost frigid, but the warmth of the morning sun is enough that he hardly notices. He wonders if it makes a difference for her, if she feels the cold. He’s never asked.

Finally, she rests her head in the crook of his shoulder, her ear pillowed against his breast. He wonders if she takes comfort in the sound of his heartbeat, especially when she does not have her own. Does it help or hurt? He guesses the former, because she stays there for a long while, the flutter of her lashes tickling his chest. The only thing that tells him she is still awake. 

He cannot see her face, but he can feel every inch of her. From the arm wound around his waist, to her fingers resting gently over his one, her cheek, the line of her throat, her breasts, her belly, the coarse hairs between her legs, her thigh, the ankle she’s notched on his shin. He lowers his nose to the crown of her head and breaths in her stony scent, the scent of living things, of earth, and the warmth of the sun… 

“Are you staying?”

“Yeah.” Her words are a cool breeze across his chest. “It’s enough.”

_ “For now” _ hangs there between them, unsaid, but Sesshoumaru leaves it be, lets himself go in the echoing silence. He holds her, and lets his heart beats for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone that was patiently waiting this follow up, I hope the wait was worth it! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had the idea for this bouncing around in my head for a while, discord gift exchange finally got me to write it, and maybe one day i’ll get to the canon rewrite fic that is supposed to precede it. Maybe.


End file.
